


Before the Dawn

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Emma's away on her quest with Regina, Killian keeps a candle lit.</p>
<p>Missing scenes for "Lily" and "Mother."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Dawn

He tells himself that the afternoon they spend together is for Henry's benefit--beginning to acquaint the lad with his vessel, recalling the lessons he'd given to young midshipmen green about the gills and yet to find their sea legs. The lessons he'd given to Bae all those years ago, and it's still a bittersweet pluck at his heartstrings, when he sees the father in the son.

But as practiced as he is at deception, he cannot escape the truth. Henry's filled with boundless faith in both of his mothers, the truest believer through and through, and the only one who needs distraction from his worries is Killian himself.

He knows what it is to fall prey to darkness, to become one with the shadows at the edge of the story, the terror that haunts the night. His fear for Emma is mitigated by the knowledge that she's so much stronger than he ever has been, and yet, he cannot quell his unease.

So he throws himself into his instruction with a will; the _Jolly_ is grander than any vessel he's taken Henry out on before, Henry an apt pupil, and they nearly miss the failing of the light as the sun sinks. Emma's parents appear at the gangway with the little prince and an invitation to dinner, and it's then that he takes notice of the grumbling in his belly, finally more hunger than concern.

They're each of them wearing a brave face, the adults at the table at Granny's, but Henry seems not to notice, thank the stars--the lad instead regales his grandparents with all that he's learned today. He looks to Killian for confirmation on a few points, but he's taken his lessons well, and Killian has but to nod. 

After the meal, Henry's eyelids begin to droop, and Mary Margaret ushers him out with the babe in tow. She bids goodnight to Killian with a look that he cannot bring himself to decipher, for there's too much of Emma in her face, and he misses her dearly.

David gathers Killian with a glance, and signals for drinks as they take seats at the counter. Killian nods to the two fingers of whiskey resting on the counter before him, and then turns to meet David's eyes. "Thank you, for letting me take care of Henry this afternoon."

David nods back to him. "Sounds like he couldn't get enough of your ship," he says. 

"He's a quick learner," Killian says, and raises his glass. The spirit burns on the way down, far preferable to the churning in his gut that had ended up keeping him from most of his meal. But he's an old hand at drinking his dinner, and though they've had their differences in the past, David looks on without judgment.

Shared fears have a way of bridging the gaps between people, after all.

Killian will always support Emma, come what may, but her anger has opened an unavoidable distance between himself and her parents as long as he stays by her side (and he will, he always will). He knows that championing their cause too fervently would appear to her wounded heart to be an act of treachery, and he will never allow her to believe herself to be alone.

It's not merely a mistaken belief in hypocrisy on their parts that fuels her sense of betrayal; he can see it in her, that she still struggles to believe that anyone would love her so much as to do anything for her, no matter the cost to their own soul.

But unlike Emma, he knows, as her parents do, what it means to commit dark deeds and make terrible mistakes in the name of love. And he knows that he, too, would go to unimaginable lengths to protect her; he'd damn himself to every hell he's not already destined for in order to keep her safe, to keep her from darkening her heart with the knowledge of true evil.

And thus he understands the impulse that led her parents to act as they did, just as he understands what it is to regret rash decisions, to struggle to make amends for the horrors you've perpetrated against the innocent.

So he borrows courage from the drink, and broaches the topic they've avoided all evening. "Emma will be fine," he says into his glass, but there's little power to his voice, and he neither convinces nor fools either one of them. If her mere safety were his only concern, he'd not doubt it for a moment, but he's a terrible premonition that Cruella's death has taken her to a precipice in more ways than one.

"Of course she will," David says, more heartily but no more genuinely, not really. He rotates his glass on the counter, idly but for the too-controlled movements of his hand. Killian watches the light glint off the swirling liquid, wishing he believed that drink would bring him solace, but he's out of lies to tell himself tonight.

He'd had a bad moment that afternoon--one that he's glad Henry missed, the lad having taken an interest in a map Killian had of the Misthaven coast. He'd been gripped by an awful pang, fear and foreboding seeming to suck the very light from the world for a few seconds.

The feeling had passed as swiftly as it came on, like a cloud ceasing to block the sun, but he'd been left shaken, only Henry's innocent queries about his grandparents' realm bringing him back to himself.

"I'm glad she has you," David says suddenly, and it surprises Killian into meeting his eyes. In this, the prince is utterly sincere, and the straits must be dire indeed to bring forth such a confession. "I'm glad you're here for her. She needs you."

His voice, when he answers, comes out a bit rough. "You as well, mate," he says, but David shakes his head.

"Not right now, she doesn't," David says, and raises his glass, considering its contents before taking the kind of swig more suited to a pirate than a prince. It's with a bitter sort of resignation that he adds, "Maybe not ever again."

And though the memory of pain lingers still in his breast, Killian finds himself saying, "I don't believe that."

He blinks, but there it is--a bone-deep conviction that Emma will make her way past anger to find her equilibrium again. As much as he worries for her, he believes in her more, in her good heart and her fathomless compassion, for if she can forgive him his trespasses, she can surely do the same for her parents.

And so he taps his fingers on the counter between them, making sure to capture David's attention. "She'll make her peace with you, I'm sure of it. She may need a bit of time, but Emma has a more generous nature than either of us deserves." 

David watches him for long enough that he needs to snatch up his glass, to laugh an unsteady laugh into it and watch the whiskey dance along the inner curve like a landlocked sea, before he downs the remainder. "But if you make _me_ give _you_ a speech about hope, Dave, I'll be the one who never forgives you."

The whiskey still burns on the way down, but it's a soothing ache, as of stretching a muscle grown stiff with disuse.

"Fair enough," David says, and wonder of wonders, there's a bit of life in his eyes, the kind of spark that's been absent since before their guilt-ridden revelation. He tips his glass in Killian's direction, and adds, "Party foul. Drinks are on me."

"They were on you anyway, mate," Killian mutters, not needing to understand the reference to catch the relevant point. But David grips his shoulder, and if it lacks the reassurance of the wary companionship they've been working their way towards, it's at least the gesture of an ally in the face of the coming storm.

* * *

He's already spoken with Emma this evening, the news of her imminent return unwinding the coil of tension that had wound itself 'round his shoulders. She's informed him, too, that their small convoy has Lily and Zelena in tow, all of their twined circumstances even more complicated than they'd imagined when she'd departed with Regina. 

And yet the grimness of her demeanor has lessened, he can hear it in her. His Swan has come to a crossroads, and taken the lighter path.

But on the off chance she wishes to contact him again, he won't run the risk that his talking phone depletes its power source and Emma finds him unreachable, so he stays at Granny's that night, propped up with a book lent him by Belle. His caution is rewarded when the device rings shortly after midnight, and he nearly fumbles in his haste to answer her call.

"Hey," she says, and it's a measure of how far gone he is that he's so fond of her unsentimental greeting. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Not at all, love." He sets aside the book and douses the electric lamp; he can see well enough by the light filtering through the window, and the intimate darkness makes him feel closer to Emma, somehow.

"Good." There's a tale of weariness contained in the sigh he hears from her. "We're making a pit stop for gas and caffeine and bathroom breaks, and I just needed a time-out from the most awkward road trip ever."

"You've never had the pleasure of dragging Mister Smee halfway across Neverland," he says lightly, settling back against the headboard of the bed.

"No, I missed that one," she says, her understated laugh making him smile in response, his jest having done its job. There's a pause--he can hear a rustling of movement--and then she adds, more quietly, "Anyway, I... I just really wanted to hear your voice."

He knows how loath she is to ask for anything--a lifetime of disappointments having left her disinclined to invite another--and it pleases him to be able to give anything she wishes, even so small a favor. "This voice?" he says softly, and she hums in agreement. "What shall I say, then?"

"Tell me that Henry ate his vegetables with dinner."

"He's more likely to do so than _you_ are," he teases, and hear the tiny exhale that means her cheeks are turning that delightful pink hue he adores. "But yes, he did."

He can all but hear her thinking in the breath she draws, heavy and considering. "Tell me that you miss me," she says, in a way he'd think a bit belligerent if he knew her less well. But he does know her, and emotion cinches his throat and curls his fingers tight about the phone.

"Oh, Emma." He swallows hard. "More than words can say."

She's quiet for a moment, but he doesn't seek to fill it; he senses she's gathering herself for something. "Tell me that you--?" Her voice is low and thick, and she cuts herself off, clearing her throat. When she continues, it's in a lighter tone, and he knows she's reconsidered her words. "Tell me that you can convince Granny to make French toast for breakfast in the morning."

"If it costs me every bauble I've ever acquired," he says, more seriously than her entreaty requires. He suspects what she truly wanted to ask him, and hopes she can hear both answers, to her stated request and to the one she's left unspoken. He wishes she were already home, that he could offer her his hand and let her read the devotion that's threaded through every part of him. 

There's a commotion on her end, and her voice is muffled--speaking to someone else with her hand over her phone, he presumes, as he's seen her do in the past. "I've gotta go," she says, and he doesn't think he's imagining the regret in her voice. "See you in the morning?"

"You certainly will." He closes his eyes, the better to imagine her lovely face. "Safe journey, love."

"Sleep tight," she whispers, and closes the connection, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

It's not merely the long hours that weigh on Emma; she's both carrying her anger and missing the buttress of her parents' support, and she's straining under the burden like a ship over-canvassed before a storm. He resolves anew to speak with her about it, to try to help her set it aside, for her own sake as well as theirs. 

But that's an issue for the morning; for now, he thinks of seeing her with the sunrise, and makes plans to negotiate with Granny.


End file.
